


neo black

by ephemeralsky



Series: sidewalk of our song [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Future Fic, M/M, Nausea, Post-High School, Vomiting, akaashi thinks a lot and oiks is a good bro, akaoi paint each other's nails and have The Talk, and when i say akaashi-centric i mean Akaashi-Centric, bokuto is sad most of the fic i'm sorry, hints of asexuality, improper and excessive usage of parentheses, tbh idk how to tag im just winging it, this is that 17k bokuaka akaashi-centered college fic that no one needed but i still wrote anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4398104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralsky/pseuds/ephemeralsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi doesn’t say anything as he steadies Oikawa’s hand, propping the fingers to stabilize them, dips the brush in the bottle, swirling it around a little, and pulls it out again, gently running the brush against the rim to rid of any excess. He swipes it over the nail of Oikawa’s index finger, covering the whole surface in black in a few clean strokes. He examines his work for a while. He wonders if specks of gold would look good over a background of complete blackness. He bites back a sigh.</p><p>“I can guess the subject of your reverie,” Oikawa chimes in, and Akaashi responds with a “Really now?” without looking up. </p><p>Oikawa perks up a bit at receiving a chance for conversation. Gives him a leeway to temporarily forget about his own problems perhaps, Akaashi assumes inwardly.</p><p>“Oh yes, I really can,” Oikawa straightens his back to deliver his grand conjecture, “You’re thinking about a certain owl-haired simpleton.”</p><p> </p><p>(or: Akaashi overthinks, Bokuto goes out running to buy hair gel, Oikawa is initially a menace but proves to be a great senpai, and Kuroo gets stuck in the middle of Akaashi and Bokuto's mess)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. color of your soul

**Author's Note:**

> it's been 84 years since I last wrote a fic and this is my very first fic for HQ and it's a mess so pls be kind thank

Akaashi doesn’t tell him.

He doesn’t tell him during the times when he bursts into the gym, hollering “Guess who’s here?” and immediately lighting up even more brightly - if that was even possible – when his eyes land on Akaashi, and he runs up to him before leaping and latching onto Akaashi, squeezing him in an embrace that’s so tight that Akaashi thinks he might just die of suffocation, and he has to pry Bokuto off when he starts rubbing his cheek against Akaashi’s because _Bokuto-san, what have I told you about respecting people’s personal spaces and nuzzling against their faces_.

He doesn’t tell Bokuto when he tails Akaashi around the gym, bouncing on the balls of his feet as strings of “Captain Akaashi, please toss to me,” and “Captain Akaashi, the number 1 shirt looks so good on you, now I regret taking the number 4,” fall from his mouth tirelessly, and Akaashi has to put his hands on Bokuto’s shoulders to have him cease his bouncing, looking at his ex-captain squarely in the face when he tells him that yes, he will toss for him, but only if he promises to behave and wait until the end of practice because the team can’t really focus when their captain has his hands full in handling the overgrown child that is his predecessor.

He doesn’t tell him on their weekend excursions to Bokuto’s favorite ice cream parlor, and when they walk around the city with ice cream cones in their hands Akaashi listens to Bokuto’s narration of how many assignments he has for that week, of how his Chemistry professor might actually be a vampire, of how his current volleyball team is great and all but it is just not the same without Akaashi tossing to him, of how glad he is that he and Kuroo are in the same university, and Bokuto misses the cringe that falls on Akaashi’s face when he comments happily that things are going to be more fun when Akaashi joins them next year.

He doesn’t tell him on the days leading up to graduation, when he has already retired from the team and he’s swamped with exam preparations, and after he receives his acceptance letter, he can only think of Bokuto’s faltering smile and disappointed, crestfallen expression when he imagines himself relaying the news to Bokuto, and Akaashi feels ill and almost vomits on the morning of his graduation ceremony, the day that he has decided to stop delaying the inevitable.

He almost doesn’t tell him on their late-night walk in the park near Akaashi’s house, both of them tired after having a post-graduation lunch with Akaashi’s parents followed by an impromptu, boisterous outing with their former volleyball teammates which Bokuto has dubbed the ‘Congrats Akaashi, you’re owlsome!’ party (“How original,” Konoha derides). Bokuto is adamant about wanting to send him home, which Akaashi allows him to do, but he tells Bokuto, with his gaze averted, that they should take a walk for a while under the pretense of appreciating the cool, crisp air of a night in spring.

 _Have you told him,_ reads the text he receives from Kenma earlier that day, and Akaashi gnaws at his lips in growing apprehension when he plays the message in his head during his walk with Bokuto.

“Akaashi?”

He snaps out of his reverie and lifts his gaze from the ground, forcing himself to look at Bokuto in the eyes, and it never bores him; looking at those deep, golden eyes, flecks of silver illuminating them under the street lamps of the park, a pair of eyes that he has grown to be so familiar with, that he has learned every shift in diluted pupils and every difference in the striking shades of gold that signifies the owner’s moods and feelings, and it is in that moment that Akaashi tells him.

Bokuto’s face immediately falls, and he looks absolutely heart-broken, causing a flash of pain to sear through Akaashi’s chest, but as quick as it morphed into an expression of sadness, it turns into one of fake chirpiness in one swift smile, and he barks out a forced laugh, telling Akaashi that of course he’s glad that Akaashi got accepted into Tokyo University, he’s so proud of him because he’s always known that Akaashi is super smart and that he would get into the program that he’s always wanted, and Akaashi frowns at Bokuto’s continuous ramblings, not knowing what to say himself in order to make Bokuto stop; _stop pretending that you’re okay with this, stop saying that a different university is okay because we’ll both still be in Tokyo anyway so what difference does it make,_ but none of these words comes out of Akaashi’s mouth, and he almost has to look away from Bokuto’s face when he notices the hurt in his eyes, the quiver in his lips, and the strain in his voice. It is on that night that Akaashi realizes that he has inflicted an immeasurable volume of pain on the person he claims to care deeply for, but he doesn’t tell him that.

He never does.

*

Akaashi finds it funny that he ends up being roommates with Iwaizumi Hajime, and it all happened under what they believe to be pure coincidence, when Akaashi found Iwaizumi’s advertisement on the student page of their university, stating that he needs a new roommate to share his off-campus apartment because the one that he had at that time was graduating soon. Akaashi contacted him almost immediately; the apartment building is 10 minutes away from the Hongo campus via train, they would have their own separate bedrooms, and the rent is reasonable. All in all, Iwaizumi was the one who, upon Akaashi’s arrival at their doorstep, expressed gratitude over the fact that Akaashi Keiji, a boy with a good head on his shoulders and a firm hold on a copious amount of sensibility and decency, reigns over the title of his roommate, and Akaashi returns the sentiment – Iwaizumi is a god-sent gift in terms of crossing off the items on Akaashi’s list of how to be a good housemate (a list that he made on the insistence of his no-nonsense father before moving in to keep himself in check, but has no use for now that he is told that he is sure to be a Good Housemate by Iwaizumi himself, and his firm geniality induces Akaashi to wonder if the previous person occupying his place was a Terrible housemate, or if Iwaizumi needs to surround himself with more decorous people who would not make him question the state of humanity). What makes their housemanship funny (at least, to Akaashi it is) is that they’re both volleyball players, making them mutually acquainted with several other teams, and Akaashi thinks that karma is a bitch, because _this is what you get for hurting others and now you’ll always be reminded of the thing you’ve determinedly decided to let go of._

On the second day of his arrival, Akaashi receives a text from Ennoshita while he is unpacking the box which contains his tripod, and he thinks that the timing is uncanny as his eyes flit from the phone in his hands to the camera on his night-stand.

_How’s the unpacking process? I hope yours isn’t as excruciating as mine._

_I finally finished editing the short film, and I’ve uploaded it to our dropbox. Check it out when you have the time and tell me what you think._

_Since I’m in Tokyo now, we could meet up in person more easily. I have ideas for a new movie, we should meet soon._

A small smile touches Akaashi’s lips and he types out a reply to Ennoshita, who is now enrolled in a filmmaking program in Waseda University, saying that he’s almost done unpacking and he plans to go out later that day, so maybe they could meet up to grab lunch or dinner. Ennoshita’s text prompts Akaashi to send one to Kenma as well, since he is supposed to move in with Kuroo on that day.

Akaashi’s thumbs still over the touchscreen of his phone, hovering over the keypad aimlessly.

Kenma has decided long ago that he would go to the same university as Kuroo, albeit never expressing the notion until they were in their third year and Fukurodani and Nekoma had their final practice match for the season. The reason for his decision was as clear as day, and Akaashi merely nodded in quiet understanding when Kenma voiced his post-graduation plans as they sat on the floor of the gym with their knees pressed close to their chest, and when Akaashi expressed his, Kenma hummed in contemplation before saying, “I’ve got your back, but you need to tell him,” and it unsettled Akaashi when he knew exactly who Kenma was referring to.

It has been 6 days, 9 hours, 13 minutes and counting since the night he told Bokuto his decision to study astrophysics in Tokyo University, and they have not seen each other since. He still receives daily morning texts from Bokuto, but their nightly phone calls have ceased to exist, and Akaashi’s heart clenches at the thought of their deteriorating friendship.

_Friendship, huh?_

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before; he’s always weighed the term ‘friendship’ heavily on his mind when he thinks of Bokuto Koutarou in contrast and relation to his other friends (which is not a very hard thing to accomplish when the number of people he considers as his friends is rather meager in fashion), and he usually comes to the same conclusion: Bokuto Koutarou is _not_ just a friend, and it is this train of thought that scares him, and it is at this point that he usually stops delving further into the matter.

There is a knock on his door and he flinches, realizing that he was almost lost in his thoughts, and he feels relieved for the distraction when he gets up to open the door. Iwaizumi stands in front of him with his usual frown and pressed lips, but this time he seems more obviously disgruntled and almost nervous, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he looks everywhere except at Akaashi, trying to find the right words to say.

“Akaashi,” he starts, “I know you’re still in the middle of unpacking, but I’ve got some bad news for you.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow, curious, and Iwaizumi coughs to clear his throat. “There’s this guy - I don’t want to call him my friend because why would I – and he wants to come visit today, even though I’ve told him not to, but the thing is, he’s impossible to…” Iwaizumi’s hands fly up in the air and he flexes his fingers, clawing at words his mind can’t come up with, “…he’s just impossible,” is what he settles for in the end, his hands falling to his sides.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and then there’s a knock on the front door, the sound of knuckles rapping against the wooden frame getting louder with each incessant thump, meshed together intermittently with the doorbell.

A heavy sigh escapes Iwaizumi’s lips, and he gives Akaashi a solemn look. “You should stay in your room to protect yourself against what’s coming,” he says in an even voice, and before Akaashi can say anything, he pads towards the front door, swinging it open and shouting, “What did I fucking tell you about knocking on the door like a decent citizen, Trashykawa!”

The visitor (Trash huh? Interesting choice of insult, Akaashi muses) squeezes his way inside and pulls his lips into a pout, “If I didn’t annoy you with the knocking and ringing, you’d never let me in, Iwa-chan!” He then points his forefinger at Iwaizumi and declares, “Which is why the only the logical thing to do is to give me a copy of your key.”

Iwaizumi grabs the man into a headlock.

“Iwa-chan, stop being such a brute!”

He stops struggling to get out of Iwaizumi’s hold when his eyes lock onto Akaashi and his expression automatically turns into one of serious deliberation, and Akaashi feels mildly startled being under such intense scrutiny, but he does not react beyond a slight rising of his eyebrows, training his face into his usual mask of composure as he engages in a staring contest with their visitor. (He seems rather familiar, and Akaashi tries to rack his brain to put a name to the face).

A whistle cuts through the air and Akaashi bristles at the frequency of the sound. Iwaizumi also pauses in his attempt to choke his visitor, and the latter uses the chance to escape the death-like grip of his impressively built arms.

“Wow, look at those pants!” the man says, his hands on his hips as he continues to study Akaashi like he’s _one fine specimen_ , eyes going up and down Akaashi, and he lets out another whistle, this time lower, “They’re absolutely _sinful_ – I mean, how can your crotch breathe in such tight adornments? They’re doing wonders for your long legs though, I’ll give them that.”

He takes a few steps closer towards Akaashi and leans in until their faces are inches apart, “And these mesmerizing eyes and long lashes, not to mention the attractive pink lips! Aren’t you just the _prettiest_ thing?” He says these things in a way that’s so unassuming to a point where he sounds rather condescending instead, as if his wide smile gives the impression that he’s trying too hard to seem genuine. It may just be Akaashi though, who is always vigilant when put against the people he has just met.  

Akaashi narrows his eyes and takes a defensive step backwards, feeling extremely uncomfortable to have his personal space invaded by a stranger who seems very keen on making crude remarks about the tightness of his pants and the traits of his facial contours.

Iwaizumi grabs a handful of the man’s shirt from behind and yanks him backwards, and Akaashi is grateful to regain some room to breathe.

“Oikawa, for the love of God, if you don’t drop your repulsively crass behavior I will kick you out of the apartment and never let you in again,” Iwaizumi threatens, “Don’t you see how uncomfortable you’ve made him?”

Oikawa’s shoulders droop, his eyes growing bigger as he juts his lower lip out. “But I was just trying to be friendly,” he says in a childish tone of voice, his pleading gaze directed at Akaashi. “I was flattering you,” he bats his eyelashes, “Don’t you feel flattered?”

“Not as much as I feel threatened and sexually harassed,” Akaashi answers easily, crossing his arms over his chest. (Okay, he thinks he knows who this person is, if his memories serve him right).

Oikawa manages to wrench himself out of Iwaizumi’s hold and smoothens his hair, flicking his head upwards in a regal manner, before offering his hand out to Akaashi, a bright smile plastered across his face. “I apologize. Let’s start over. I’m Oikawa Tooru, the beauty to the beast that is Iwaizumi Hajime,” he maneuvers to the side, swiftly dodging Iwaizumi’s kick, hand still extended.

Akaashi studies his face, warily, but accepts his hand anyway, feeling that it would be of no use to refuse the gesture. Besides, beauty and the beast? Aside from the degrading connotation that Iwaizumi is beastly, there’s also the nuance that they’re in _that_ sort of relationship.

“Hmm, nice hands too,” Oikawa comments blithely as he examines Akaashi’s hand, turning it over and running his thumb over the knuckles.  

Akaashi briskly draws his hand away and Oikawa makes no remark about it, his unnervingly sweet smile still stretched over his features. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“Akaashi,” a pause. “Akaashi Keiji.”

“Akaashi Keiji! What a pleasant name!” Oikawa announces with the same debonair air that he had when he pointed out Akaashi’s choice of garments.

He taps a finger to his chin, still considering Akaashi with a disconcerting amount of attention. “Can I ask you one question though?”

Akaashi glances out of the corner of his eyes at Iwaizumi, who’s standing behind Oikawa, mouthing a ‘No’ and shaking his head fervently, his expression admonishing.

Akaashi eyes Oikawa carefully. “Only if I can choose to ignore it,” he replies evenly.

Oikawa chuckles, “Alright. I usually can guess this when I see a person but it’s kind of hard with you. What’s your sexuali –”

“Ignored. Access denied,” Akaashi cuts in, not looking amused in the slightest bit, with his poker face and unimpressed stare.

“Definitely not straight,” Oikawa concludes, the corners of his lips curling into a sneer.

Akaashi arches an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over Oikawa from head to toe, and he smirks, “I can say the same about you. I’m pretty sure the only straight things about you are your tosses and serves, Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa’s mouth falls open, his sneer completely wiped off his face. Even Iwaizumi looks surprised.

Oikawa quickly recovers from the shock though, and lets out a peal of laughter, laughing until there are tears at the edge of his eyes. Akaashi notes that that must how Oikawa looks like with a real smile on, and a soft, one-pixel smile plays over his own lips.

Oikawa’s laughter dies down and he pats Akaashi on both shoulders. “I like you,” he says, his voice still tinted with mirth. “I like him,” he tells Iwaizumi, “You can keep this one.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and trots to the kitchen. “I’ll go make tea for us or something.”

“So,” Oikawa says, eyes bright, “How did you know that I’m gay?”

Not at all fazed by the tactless question, Akaashi gives the ghost of a shrug. “I didn’t know, I merely guessed,” he falls quiet for a while, thoughtful, “I vaguely remember seeing you in magazines though, when I was in high school. But even if I’ve never seen you, I’ve heard of you. I’m pretty certain that anyone who’s played volleyball in high school has.” He’s also pretty certain that Bokuto and Kuroo have told him of the instances where they went up against Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s team a few times in the past year. (He could’ve sworn that Bokuto is following Oikawa on twitter and instagram or something, but he can’t be sure).

“Oh?” Oikawa quirks an eyebrow upwards, his lips twitching into a conceited smirk, seemingly pleased at being recognized, “Well, I look a lot better in person right? Such measly printings can’t even begin to pertain the extent of my real beauty.”

Akaashi doesn’t grace him with an answer, leveling a steady gaze against him.

Oikawa blinks at the lack of response, then giggles, dropping his display of vanity. “Actually, I sort of know who you are as well. Your volleyball team went to nationals, and you’re a pretty skilled setter, if your team record is anything to go by,” he spares a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen before muttering, almost bitterly, “But you’ve decided to stop playing seriously after high school.” His face is rather grim, and his eyes are dark, devoid of any hint of the previous joviality.

Before Akaashi can make a comeback, Iwaizumi returns to the living room, carrying their drinks, and Oikawa resumes his charming persona. “Iwa-chan! Akaashi seems like a perfectly fine young man, you had me worried for absolutely no reason!” he chides, puffing out his cheeks.

Iwaizumi sets their drinks on the coffee table and grinds his teeth, shooting a glare at Oikawa. “I only told you that I have a new roommate and you were the one who decided, _on your fucking own,_ that you wanted to come and scout him,” he yells, “I mean – what the hell does that even mean?” he throws his hands in the air, incredulity sketching his features.

“It means exactly what it means: I’m here on a scouting mission to study and identify any potential threats,” Oikawa explains fluidly, looking at Iwaizumi like he’s a pitiful student who’s failing his classes, “Honestly Iwa-chan, sometimes I have my doubts over the legitimacy of your enrollment in Todai.”

Iwaizumi rolls his sleeves up and stomps towards Oikawa, “I will end you, if that’s the last thing I do –”

“Iwaizumi-san,” Akaashi interjects in a calm voice, making Iwaizumi halt from violently shaking Oikawa by his collar, “Please take this outside,” Oikawa looks at him as if he’s the biggest traitor to ever roam the planet, mouth agape and eyes widening in horror, “Also, your phone is ringing,” he continues.

Iwaizumi sighs and promptly releases Oikawa, padding towards his room to retrieve his cellphone. “You better thank Akaashi and untimely coincidences Trashykawa,” he snarls over his shoulder before the door to his room clicks shut.

Akaashi and Oikawa stare at the closed door, then turn to face each other, sharing a glance, and Akaashi breathes out a laugh, making Oikawa purse his lips and narrow his eyes. “This is no laughing matter! Honestly, I thought you were about to let Iwa-chan get away with murder,” Oikawa grouses.

Akaashi mumbles an unapologetic “Sorry” when his laughter subsides, an amused grin adorning his face.

“You don’t look sorry at all,” Oikawa grumbles through his pout, but by the time he’s plopped down on the couch, he has a small smile curling his lips as he takes a sip of his drink.

Akaashi settles next to him, cradling his mug in his hands, but before he can enjoy the silence that’s starting to permeate the room, Oikawa asks, “Are you still going to check out the volleyball team though?” He taps a finger against his mug, his expression pensive. “Iwa-chan told me that you’re not, because that’s what you told him, but… I can’t help but wonder if it’s that easy to stop doing what you’ve always done.”

Akaashi brings the mug away from his mouth and sets it on the table, avoiding Oikawa’s gaze as he leans his back against the couch. Golden eyes flash in front of him, and his fingers twitch as he recalls the sensation of tossing a ball high into the air, setting it at a perfect height and angle for it to be spiked to the other side of the court.

He turns to Oikawa, smiling ruefully, “Oikawa-san, you seem to know more about me than you let on,” he lets that statement hang in the air for a while. “But, if I wanted to play volleyball, I wouldn’t have…” he trails off when he realizes what he was about to say, and he swallows, taking a deep breath.

“You wouldn’t have what?” Oikawa presses, waiting for Akaashi to continue.

Akaashi shakes his head a little. “It’s not like I’m completely quitting volleyball. I’ll drop by to check the team out, but even if I do decide to join – which is fairly unlikely – I won’t be able to devote myself like I used to.”

Oikawa stares at him for a while longer, and a tiny smile makes its way to his lips, the sort of smile that says he knows something that others don’t; a precious little secret. “Iwa-chan is always busy with his studies but he never skips out on practice, even though he keeps telling me that he might quit if his study load becomes too unbearable or if he’s had enough of babysitting me,” he breaks eye contact with Akaashi and his gaze falls on Iwaizumi’s closed door, “They’re really just empty threats though, I know that. Honestly, he’s such a tsundere,” Oikawa mumbles, a little too quietly, almost wistfully, and Akaashi wonders if he’s supposed to hear that, if he’s breached onto something that he shouldn’t have.

The door opens and Iwaizumi steps out, scowling when he sees that Oikawa is still there.

“Iwa-chan, was that your girlfriend? You sure took your time, even though you’re supposed to entertain your guest!” Oikawa says indignantly.

“Akaashi, I’m sorry you have to put up with him,” Iwaizumi says, tipping his head downwards slightly.

“You’re ignoring me?” Oikawa gasps.

“Don’t be, Iwaizumi-san. I’ve dealt with much worse,” Akaashi replies.

“Akacchi, how cruel!” Oikawa points an accusing finger at Iwaizumi, “Iwa-chan, you’ve besmirched him!”

“Oikawa-san, please don’t call me that,” Akaashi says, straight-faced.

“If anyone is capable of corrupting him, it’d be you, asshole,” Iwaizumi states scathingly, “Not that I’m saying you can bend easily under the forces of evil, Akaashi,” he adds, all traces of venom gone as he regards Akaashi.

“ _Kei-chan_ ,” Oikawa says, “Are you just going to let Iwa-chan slander your new-found friend like this?”

Akaashi grimaces, “Kei-chan…?”

“Oikawa, get your ass out of here. I thought you had practice,” Iwaizumi says, pulling Oikawa’s ear, making him yelp.

“That hurts!” Oikawa cries, “And that’s a lame excuse to get rid of me – if I have practice, you do too!” He continues to whine as Iwaizumi drags him to the front door, “You don’t understand, Iwa-chan. I have to deepen my bond with Nice Legs-kun!” he reasons, and Akaashi narrows his eyes, lips pressed together in a tight line as he throws Oikawa a look of disdain.

“Oikawa-san. No,” he retorts in a clipped tone.

“You’re both so mean!” Oikawa wails before Iwaizumi slams the door shut in his face. There’s a temporary silence on both sides, and Iwaizumi sighs in relief when he thinks that Oikawa has left.

“You know you can’t keep me out forever, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa trills from outside, and Iwaizumi instantly turns the knob on the bolt, securely locking the door.

Akaashi sighs, and Iwaizumi looks apologetic.

“Well,” Akaashi says, “He’s quite the character,” he smiles that small, lazy smile, and Iwaizumi almost laughs.

“That’s one way of saying it.”

Akaashi takes out his phone to look at the time, decides that he’ll go out in an hour, leaving him with ample time to go shopping before he meets up with Ennoshita later on. He needs to buy new pants.

*

An old conversation:

_“Akaashi, will you still play volleyball when you’re in college?”_

_“I’m not sure, Bokuto-san. Why do you ask?”_

_“I still have another year before I graduate, but I feel that I wanna keep on playing for as long as I can, so it’s a definite that I’ll still play when I’m in college. But…”_

_“But?”_

_“It’s just that – well, Akaashi, if you go to the same place as I do, you have to play volleyball with me okay? You just have to!”_

_“If you insist, then I’ll continue with volleyball in university. But only if I go to the same place as you do. And only if you manage to graduate safely from high school.”_

_“Akaashi, don’t ruin the moment!”_

*

Ennoshita drums his finger on the table, biting his lower lip and tapping his foot against the leg of the table, a sheepish smile adorning his face as he peers tentatively at Akaashi.

“So… is it okay?”

Akaashi flips through the pages of the script, giving it a once-over, puts the stapled pieces of paper down on the table, and closes his eyes, sighing. He’s read it, and it’s _good_ , and he’s been flipping through it three times for the past 15 minutes, his face a picture of calm concentration.

“I mean, I get it if you’re mad, I did write this without getting your consent,” Ennoshita says, suddenly hyper-aware that what he’s done might have just crossed the line of their unspoken partnership and quiet friendship.

Akaashi opens his eyes, looking directly into Ennoshita’s, and steeples his fingers, his elbows on the table, his previous look of unwavering circumspection replaced by his usual look of relaxed diffidence. “This is great,” he says, a tiny, earnest smile on his lips tearing down his poker face, and Ennoshita blinks twice, and as the statement is finally processed in his head, his face breaks into a bright smile.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he breathes. He collects the script and takes out a pen, scribbling a quick note on the front page. “Honestly, you really scared me for a moment there.”

Akaashi shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee, “For added suspense.”

Ennoshita, exasperated, laughs, “How thoughtful of you.” He goes through the script, stopping at the middle of it, and stares at the page. “If I were to be completely honest, the inspiration to write this came from you, and before I realized it, I had written a whole storyboard with a main character that’s created based off you,” he says, his smile still intact, and Akaashi is still caught by surprise on how Ennoshita can be so straightforward and yet so indirect about his speech, thoughts, and actions, the two adjectives potentially serving as descriptions of their friendship as well. Concerning the things that fall on common grounds, mostly subjects revolving around volleyball, along with the woes of being team captains to high-school boys who have the tendency to act like rowdy pre-schoolers, and visual art (which is easily their favorite area of discussion), they’re blunt and rarely beat around the bush, being able to text each other often, their virtual conversations sometimes lasting from dusk until astronomical twilight the next morning (this is largely possible due to how they’re both night-owls), but anything that falls outside of that scope has never been touched, and Akaashi doesn’t know if it’s something that’s done consciously or not. Having Ennoshita write a whole story based on him is both profound and strange, but their friendship has always been that way to him, and he has to admit that he doesn’t actually mind it if it’s considered a tad unusual.  

“I’m not opposed to being the source of your muse,” Akaashi says, “I just don’t see how the main character is supposed to be born out of my personality – he’s such a sarcastic little smartass,” he flashes Ennoshita a playful smile.

Ennoshita chortles. “If you’re not a sarcastic smartass then I’m the Pope.”

Akaashi shakes his head lightly, smiling as he downs the remainder of his coffee.

“You’ve decided on your cast?” he asks.

Ennoshita nods, “Sort of,” then he grins, almost sinisterly, “Would you like to play the protagonist? After all, he’s basically you; you’d be a natural at it.”

Akaashi levels him a flat look. “I’m flattered, but I’ll pass. If I do it, I’ll have to start charging you. I’m already doing your movie posters for free.”

“Cheapskate,” Ennsohita scoffs.

Ennoshita proceeds to finish his almost-forgotten sandwich while Akaashi orders a coffee refill.

“I’m half-joking, but I’m also half-serious,” Ennoshita says, “You’ll think about it, won’t you?”

“I prefer being behind the camera. You know that,” Akaashi replies, but there is a trace of a smile on his lips when he says the following line, “But being the upstanding friend that I am, I’ll think about it.”

Ennoshita beams.

There is a beat of silence, and Akaashi’s mind chooses this time to churn over unnecessary thoughts.

“You described the protagonist as someone who likes to have his nails painted black,” Akaashi says, almost pensively, his heavily lidded eyes set downcast, his expression contemplative, “Why is that?”

Ennoshita hums softly. “Black is the color of his – _your_ – soul,” he says, and Akaashi raises his brows.

“I mean it in a good way,” Ennoshita assures, grinning, “I thought it would suit the character.” He pauses for a while. “I think it would definitely suit you too,” his gaze is focused on Akaashi’s hand that’s curled around his cup of coffee. “Black nails.”

Akaashi sucks in a deep breath, shifts his eyes towards the steam that’s rising from the hot, black liquid in front of him, and smiles derisively, “I see.”

They both fall silent again, Ennoshita writing assiduously into his screenplay and Akaashi looking outside the window, the sun beginning to slant into the horizon, the sky a mixture of orange and red, patches of grey clouds clinging onto it.

His phone buzzes and Akaashi takes it out of his pocket, his face immediately pulled into a sour expression when he sees the caller ID. Reluctantly, he slides his thumb across the answer key.

“Hey hot-stuff,” is the first thing he is greeted with when he brings the phone to his ear, and he is tempted to hurtle his phone across the room. “Today must be my lucky day – to think that I’ve been gifted with the honor of having Akaashi answer my call!”

Akaashi closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing irritably as he gathers up enough patience and strength to deal with the caller. “Kuroo-san,” he says, his voice leaden with exasperation, “What.”

“At least put some energy into making that sound like an actual question,” Kuroo rebukes, his tone impish.

Akaashi does not want to invest his energy into doing that.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Kuroo drawls, taking Akaashi’s silence as a sign that he can continue talking; usually Akaashi would simply hang up when he decides that he doesn’t want to bother himself in putting up with Kuroo’s shit. “It’s been a few weeks hasn’t it?”

It hasn’t.

“And you never reply my texts!” Kuroo whines.

That’s not true; Akaashi recalls replying to one of his messages four months ago – ‘never’ is too much of an exaggeration.

“Don’t you miss me?” Kuroo rambles on.

He doesn’t.

Kuroo stops talking, and a brief silence hangs between them. Akaashi hears Kuroo release a deep sigh, and he can already anticipate where the one-sided conversation is going. He clutches his phone and braces himself.

“He misses you,” Kuroo says quietly, distantly.

Akaashi knows he does.

His grip on his phone tightens. “He’s upset with me,” he responds, and he hates how his voice is strained, laced with a kind of forlorn anguish that he hasn’t realized he harbors up to that moment, betraying the apathetic expression that he’s trying to put on.

Ennoshita whips his head up from the script to look at him, and he makes an effort to not return the gaze, standing up and excusing himself to the restroom. Once inside, he sags his back against the wall, tipping his head up to stare at the ceiling, his eyes following the crack that spreads above him.

“Akaashi? You still with me?”

Akaashi presses his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“Listen, he might be upset, but he misses you anyway. He hasn’t styled his hair up or eaten the marshmallow fudge ice cream I stocked up him for almost a week now. _A week,_ Akaashi. No stupid owl hair, no ice cream. What’s worse is that he rejected my offer to treat him to yakiniku. This is a _crisis_ ,” Kuroo states in a grave tone. “And he keeps bringing in stray dogs and cats, saying that they’re as lonely and sad as he is so he has the rights to adopt them.”

Akaashi opens his eyes and continues examining the crack in the ceiling. They should really get it fixed.

He laughs, humorlessly, “That serious huh?”

“A fucking crisis,” Kuroo repeats. “Do you know how many animals I’ve had to drive out of his place yesterday?”

Akaashi rakes a hand through his hair in slight frustration, because even though he already saw this coming, he doesn’t feel that he can own up to it and face what has been bothering him long before he graduated, but he knows that there has to be a stop sign somewhere that will remind him that he can’t run away forever.

“Akaashi,” Kuroo says, in a tone that’s too gentle for Akaashi’s comfort, “I can’t be with him all the time now, since I’ve moved in to a new place with Kenma, and I know you can’t either, but at least work things out. The semester is gonna start tomorrow, and I know you’ll be swamped after this, so do it before it’s too late, okay?”

Akaashi hates it when Kuroo is right. In his most humble and honest opinion, Kuroo is a shrewd asshole whose all-knowing, smug grin and laid-back gait, along with his provocative behaviors, are enough to make Akaashi recoil, but while his allegations of being kind are often met with skepticism, Akaashi knows that he _is_ what he claims to be – kind; and his “broship” with Bokuto makes Akaashi both want to tear his hair out and contemplate wryly on the fineness and vigor of young male friendship. In the end, Akaashi doesn’t know if he likes or dislikes Kuroo (“You definitely like me,” Kuroo once cooed, and it is because he said that that Akaashi is reluctant to admit anything), but he has other things at stake now, and his unresolved sentiments towards Kuroo are the least of his worries.

“Akaashi, I can hear you insulting me in your head.”

“Trust me, I don’t want thoughts of you running around my head anymore than you do, so I’ll try my best to expunge you from my mind,” Akaashi retorts monotonously, straightening himself up and positioning himself in front of the mirror.

Kuroo’s laughter crackles through the phone, and Akaashi tugs a strand of his hair absent-mindedly, and recalls that he needs to get his hair trimmed. He also notes the dark lines underneath his eyes, the ones that have gotten more prominent since the past week, and he squints at his reflection, shooting himself a vitriolic stare.

“If I wasn’t too busy appreciating your sense of humor I’d be genuinely hurt,” Kuroo says, “Anyway, come by our place some time soon. You’ve been to my old place before, so you should be good in finding the new one - they’re not far apart. It’s just a bit of a walk from the train station – pretty much the same as before. From my old place it takes around 10 minutes, the new one’s like, a 20 hour walk.”

Akaashi doesn’t respond, and Kuroo is also quiet on the other side.

“Wait,” Kuroo says. “Minutes. I meant to say 20 minutes. All that talking has made me confuse myself.”

“Kuroo-san, stop before you hurt yourself any further,” Akaashi intones as he turns away from the mirror and leans against the sink, deciding that his eyebags won’t go away even if he glares at them. “Though I guess I should be thanking you.”

“I don’t know. Should you?” Kuroo croons, and Akaashi can practically see the wagging eyebrows that accompany the shit-eating grin.

“I’m hanging up,” Akaashi states, and proceeds to cut the line off before Kuroo can say anything further. He sighs, and realizes that he feels really tired. He’s dealt with more people that day than he prefers to, and the nebulous state of his strained relationship with Bokuto adds up to his exhaustion. He inhales deeply, and steps out of the restroom. He shouldn’t keep Ennoshita waiting.

*

An old conversation:

_“What is this, Bokuto-san? My birthday isn’t until a couple of months. If this is a bribe to make me do your homework for you then –”_

_“It’s just a gift Akaashi, for always being so awesome! I mean, you might really hate it and wonder why the heck I would even give it to you but it just reminded me of you and I thought that it would really suit you and oh my god Akaashi you’re gonna open it now!?”_

_“Nail polish.”_

_“Akaashi, cross my heart and hope to die, this is not a gag gift!! Yesterday my sister dragged me to go shopping with her and when we were at this really funky store I saw this poster of a lady with really cool black nails and the first thought I had was how much they would look good on you. Please don’t hate me. You can give it back if you hate it but please don’t hate me.”_

_“Bokuto-san.”_

_“Y-yeah?”_

_“Thank you, for thinking of me.”_

_“N-no problem.”_

_“I’ll put it to good use.”_

_“Yeah. Okay.”_

_“I don’t hate you, so stop looking as if I kicked your hypothetical puppies.”_

_“You don’t?! That’s great! That’s really great!”_

_“Please stop hugging and spinning me around.”_

*

Akaashi doesn’t find the time to come by Kuroo’s place until the following week, hauling himself out of bed on a Saturday morning after the first week of classes. He’s adjusting well, if not for the fact that his hair seems to be getting more unruly and the bags under his eyes look as if they could carry his exorbitantly priced college textbooks. Bokuto has not been answering his phone calls, and even the already scarce text messages are getting sparser by the day. ((On a tangential note, the text messages he’s receiving from Kuroo have increased in number and tone of urgency, and he’s beginning to get texts from Oikawa as well, of which he has deemed to ignore because they are all very random texts that range from alien trivia to suggestions (read: demands) of starting up a Setters Squad/Club (“I haven’t decided on the name yet,” he writes). Akaashi does not want to know how he managed to attain his number)). This, by far, has been the longest time he hasn’t spoken with Bokuto, and as good as he is at hiding it, he is restless.

Akaashi stands in front of the door to Kuroo and Kenma’s place, uneasiness curdling his stomach. Kuroo called and said that Bokuto has been crashing at their place for the past few days, because he’s “pathetic and lonely and Kenma is too much of a sweetheart to throw him out”, leaving Akaashi to ruminate over the scale of damage he has caused, and the molten steel of dread in his stomach spills over to his chest, making him find it hard to breathe.

“Calm down,” he tells himself as he inhales deeply. He’s about to knock on the door when it flings open, and a very surprised Bokuto, his hair deflated and falling over his face, stands in front of him, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi greets when the initial shock has left him, “Hello.”

The door slams shut in his face and Akaashi blinks dumbly at the apartment number that’s emblazoned at the center of the door. That went well, he thinks to himself, and he suddenly loathes his own sense of biting sarcasm.

The door swings open once again, but this time it’s Kuroo who stands in front of him, and he appears a little out of breath. He grins and motions for Akaashi to come in, and Akaashi steps inside, toeing his shoes off, and he hopes that his face is still in its usual state of calm indifference as he follows Kuroo to the living room.

He hears a crash and a loud yelp from inside one of the rooms, and Kuroo waves his hand dismissively when Akaashi raises an eyebrow quizzically.

“The idiot will be right out, Akaashi, so just make yourself at home. I’ll bring you something to drink,” Kuroo quips before walking off into the kitchen.

Akaashi sits on the couch and frowns, because the noise coming from the room is getting louder, a frenzy of things getting thrown on the ground and shuffling footsteps. The cacophony stops and the door to the room beside the television set almost flies open, Bokuto standing at the doorway with his hair styled up, and the board shorts and tattered t-shirt he was wearing when he opened the front door just know are replaced with his usual garments that flaunt his flashy and distinct fashion taste. He clears his throat, squares his shoulders, and walks towards Akaashi, stopping directly in front of him. Akaashi looks up and waits.

“Hey,” the greeting comes out as a squeak, and Bokuto quickly covers his mouth with his hands, whipping his body around to hide his face, swearing and muttering incoherently to himself.

“What are you even doing?” Kuroo saunters into the living room, carrying a tray of mugs and setting them down on the low table in front of Akaashi. “I can’t believe you shut the door on Akaashi like that,” he says, standing in his usual languid stance, his arms folded over his chest.

Bokuto faces Kuroo, his cheeks puffed out petulantly. “You didn’t have to hit me for it! And I was just slightly panicked! You didn’t tell me earlier that Akaashi was coming, and I was running outside to buy some –”

“You know that I have a lot of hair gel, you didn’t have to go out to buy them, dumbass,” Kuroo counters, not even allowing Bokuto to finish his sentence.

“But yours stinks! I don’t want that gross stuff anywhere near my hair!” Bokuto argues, “Besides, it doesn’t even work – it doesn’t do anything to help clear off that rat’s nest on your head!”

Kuroo places a hand over his chest, pulling an appalled face. “ _Rude._ My hair looks more like a rooster than a _rat’s nest,_ thank you very much.”

Bokuto’s face falls into a sullen expression, “I had to use my emergency supply, the one that I always keep in my –”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because he realizes that Akaashi is staring at him, the onyx gems of his eyes riveted on him, the tiny upward quirk of his lips signifying his amusement, and Bokuto feels his face growing hot.

Kuroo’s eyes flit from Bokuto to Akaashi and back to Bokuto again, and a wicked smile plays over his lips, the rebuttal towards Bokuto for their verbal squabble vanishing instantly, replaced by something more morally encouraging. “Alright then, you kids enjoy yourselves, I’ll be in my room to stare at my homework. Kenma shouldn’t be back until a couple of hours too, so use your time wisely,” he gives them a wink that’s meant to look salacious but only comes off as asininely exaggerated before he retreats to his room, Bokuto’s distressed grunts and whimpers completely disregarded.  

Bokuto fidgets from where he stands, and Akaashi would have smiled if the situation isn’t as dire as it is in that moment.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and Bokuto jumps, “Please have a seat.”

Bokuto complies, sitting upright with his legs and knees rigidly pressed close together, his fingers twisting around as they rest on his lap, and Akaashi casts him a sidelong glance.

“You didn’t have to change your clothes – honestly Bokuto-san, I’ve seen you buck-naked countless of times before when we’re changing, even more so when we’re at training camp,” Akaashi says without missing a beat, and Bokuto snaps his head towards him, cheeks blotched with patches of scarlet.

“This is different! I haven’t seen you in forever, so I had to make sure that I look cool and presentable,” Bokuto protests, and Akaashi allows the smile that sprouts on his lips to spread more widely than usual as he regards Bokuto with a warm gaze.

“You finally looked at me in the eyes,” Akaashi says, his voice softer than usual.

Bokuto visibly wilts, and his eyes glide to the side, once again escaping Akaashi’s. “It’s just – well, I’m still sulking,” he mutters, crossing his arms across his chest, and Akaashi’s smile dims into a more sorrowful one.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to, because Bokuto is the one who speaks up first ensuing the stiff silence that envelops them.

“You… your eyebags have gotten worse,” Bokuto remarks in an uncharacteristically small voice, gaze still avoiding Akaashi. “You haven’t been sleeping properly?”

“You would’ve known if you called me every night like you normally did,” Akaashi deflects, knowing that his tone is bordering on accusatory, and he tries to swallow his feelings down.

Bokuto blenches, but he slowly turns to face Akaashi. Their eyes meet, and Akaashi’s breath hitches, his attention lost inside the deep gold of Bokuto’s eyes, and he thinks of how much he’s missed them, the warm pools of gold that burn and shine at an incandescence that would make the sun envious, and the dizzying stupor he’s caught in by the sheer luminosity of them, but that day they are dulled, the magnificent gold obscured by clouds that spill an ink of despondency.

“I wanted to call you,” Bokuto says, the crinkles at the edge of his eyes apparent as he struggles to keep his emotions under control, his mouth hitting a hard line when he doesn’t find the words he wants to say.

“I… I wanted to see you. Really badly,” are the words he settles for, “But – but I’m also very sad. Each time I think of you, my heart feels like it’s about to pop, and I don’t know what to do.” He leans in forward, eyes scrunched as if he’s under a lot of pain, which he very well is, “I’m also angry, but I still want to see you and talk to you. Tell me, Akaashi, what should I do?”

Bokuto reaches a hand out, gently grazing Akaashi’s cheek with the back of his fingers, and they ghost along Akaashi’s cheekbones and down to his jaw, and Bokuto moves in closer, eyes flickering to where Akaashi’s mouth is.

Akaashi presses a hand on Bokuto’s shoulder, and uses the other to hold Bokuto’s wrist, removing the hand that was caressing his face.

“Bokuto-san, you mustn’t,” Akaashi says, softly, evenly, his eyes trained downwards.

Bokuto doesn’t move for a while, but then he shifts, creating some space between them, his eyes unreadable.

Elbows on his knees and shoulders hunched, he scrubs his hands over his face, and then he barks out a laugh, bitter, forced.

“I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it you know?” he says, his head tipped upwards, his gaze away from Akaashi.

“Akaashi…what am I to you?”  

Akaashi’s face is sketched with consternation, a deep frown wrinkling his brows.

“Why are you –”

“I’m asking because I don’t know!” Bokuto snaps, his voice slightly cracked at the end of the sentence, dripping with frustration and anger, but mostly sadness. “I thought we had something going on – I really did – because you’re always so kind to me, even though I know how unreasonable and pathetic I can be, and you’ve always been special, but then –” he buries his face into his hands once again, “ – but then you decided to go somewhere else,” he rasps, his words nearly imperceptible.

Akaashi swallows, trying to keep his breathing even, his frown cutting deeper. “If this is about me going to Todai, then –”

“You know damn well that this isn’t just about that!” Bokuto shouts, hands clenched into tight fists, his knuckles turning white, and Akaashi jolts at the intensity and violence in his voice. Bokuto has never raised his voice like that before; at least, not when he’s angry, and never towards Akaashi.

Bokuto’s breathing is ragged, chest heaving with each intake of air as he digs the heel of his palms in his eyes. “It’s more than that, Akaashi, and you know it,” he voices hoarsely, and when he removes his hands, Akaashi sees the tears that have welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill, and his heart drums loudly in his chest, his stomach coiling; making Bokuto cry is the last thing he ever wants to do.

“Bokuto-san, please…” he murmurs, his voice just above a whisper.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t even deny or defend himself against what’s said to him, because there is nothing untrue about those words. He knows this, and yet he can’t find it in him to speak, to tumble out the words that would rectify his mistakes, that would mend their relationship, that would relieve Bokuto of his suffering, and he feels like a selfish coward.    

Sniffling loudly, Bokuto roughly wipes away the trail of tear that manages to escape his eyes with his sleeve. A silly, broken smile is hanging on his face, and suddenly he seems older and haggard, the emotional turbulence he’s undergoing manifesting through his outer visage.

“You know what, forget what I said.” Releasing a barely audible sigh, he stands up, “I need to go out and calm myself. It was nice seeing you.” He sounds weary, and it is only after he trudges to the front door and closes it behind him that Akaashi feels distinctly woozy, his head spinning in a whirlwind of thoughts, and there are black spots marring his vision as he cups a trembling hand over his mouth, swallowing down the bile that’s rising in his throat. He breaks into a cold sweat, and, bending over from where he sits, he clamps his eyes shut, giving it his all in attempting to stop himself from throwing up. It is in this condition that Kuroo finds him, and although he doesn’t want to be indebted to him, Akaashi allows Kuroo to help him up and guide him to the bathroom, where he disgorges what little he had for breakfast that morning, with Kuroo rubbing circles on his back.

Despite Akaashi’s adamancy in his reassurances that he is absolutely fine, Kuroo still escorts him to the train station, offering to even send him home but Akaashi manages to dissuade him, reminding him that he should be waiting at home for Kenma’s return. With a weak, tiny smile, he thanks Kuroo and boards the train, grateful that Kuroo doesn’t bring up or ask anything about what happened, even though Akaashi is sure that he is aware of what has transpired between him and Bokuto.

*

An old conversation:

_“Bokuto-san, it’s past your bed time. You should sleep.”_

_“It’s only eleven! The night is still young!”_

_“But you usually go to bed at 10, since you’re an early-riser. You shouldn’t force yourself to stay awake.”_

_“You’re still up, so I want to accompany you.”_

_“I’ll be up for another couple of hours or so, and I’m used to it, so I don’t need to be accompanied.”_

_“But! I want to talk to you.”_

_“We see each other every day, and we have practice tomorrow, I don’t see why you’d want to talk to me when you could be sleeping.”_

_“This is different though! How should I explain it – it feels different when we’re talking on the phone. I don’t like how I can’t see your face, but I like how your voice sounds.”_

_“Is that so.”_

_“That is very much so! I also have to make sure that you get enough sleep!”_

_“So you say, but you fell asleep 5 minutes into the conversation two nights ago.”_

_“That was a momentary weakness, I promise you that it won’t happen again! Oh, oh! Remember the time when I managed to stay awake till 3 am?! That was mighty impressive if I say so myself.”_

_“That was only because you were overly concerned over the possibility of a cross-breed between Feathers and Whiskers that would ultimately lead to an owl and cat hybrid, and you couldn’t sleep.”_

_“Good thing I asked you about it, you made me realize that Whiskers probably wouldn’t have appreciated being locked in Feathers’ cage!”_

_“Next time you have brilliant ideas during ungodly hours in the morning, don’t.”_

_“Bokuto-san?”_

_“Bokuto-san.”_

_“…you’ve dozed off, haven’t you.”_

 

*

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it.

What it meant when he applied to all these different universities with ideas of volleyball in the back burner, what it meant when the first thing that popped into his mind when he initially thought about post high school plans were a pair of golden eyes to the tune of uninhibited laughter and a broad smile, what it meant when he had endlessly mulled over the right term that would define his feelings for Bokuto and none of the answers he came up with were satisfactory (or rather, none of them were what he wanted them to be) – it’s not like he was completely oblivious as to what all of these things meant.

When Akaashi does something, he would put his all into it, in that quiet, stoic way of his, dedicating his energy and focus, because doing something half-heartedly leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It’s the same with volleyball; he started playing it sometime in elementary school because his parents wanted him to be involved in any type of sports, and while he wasn’t particularly good, he wasn’t too shabby either (this has always been a trait of his, a jack of all trades, his father likes to say – he can be good at almost anything, but he’s never really risen up to actually be the _best_ ). Since he had already begun playing it, there was no question that he would be committed in making sure that he would do it without ever being half-assed about it. Passionate is not really an attribute of his, at least, not on the exterior, but he _is_ responsible and focused, and he hates to lose, if nothing else. Which was exactly why he could come off as being decent at volleyball by the time he got into high school, and he had to admit, going to nationals was a great reward for all those times he spent tossing and jogging in his spare time and eating healthy all the while making sure that he never fell behind in his studies. Being cliché and sappy is not like him in the least, but he has to say that he made a lot of good memories through his involvement in volleyball, and while he might have upped his stamina, increased his power, honed his techniques, improved his jumps and complemented them with his inherent analytical abilities all for the sake of self-satisfaction that stems from his unyielding desire to always do things properly and seriously, he realized that _something_ had changed when he began to have thoughts like ‘volleyball is rather fun’ or ‘I wouldn’t actually mind using the time for completing my homework to stay behind for extra practice with Bokuto-san’. It was hard to stay constant in his state of indifference when he spends most of his waking hour with Bokuto, whose magnetic charm is a flux that pulls and pushes and _changes_ the things that crosses paths with him. But like most of things that Akaashi does, he’s not particularly attached to it – he likes it, but he’s not tied down by any sort of strong fondness for the sport. _That moment_ had existed for him, and it was sufficient to get him hooked on volleyball throughout high school, but it is not enough of a reason for him to stick with it when he has other priorities now.

Of course, this does not justify him leaving Bokuto in the dark about his decisions and the reasons behind them.

Akaashi was slow on the uptake; he had caught Bokuto staring at him way too often back when they were in school, and he was always a bit too touchy-feely, his gaze and his hands lingering on Akaashi for longer than necessary, but none of these had registered to Akaashi as signs of a crush or anything of the sort, and it was only after he himself had thought about his own feelings that everything clicked into place. (He should have known, really. Bokuto’s idiosyncratic behaviors aside, Akaashi should’ve known sooner from the way their teammates (and Kuroo) like to poke fun at a flustered Bokuto in hushed tones, smirking in Akaashi’s direction and waggling their eyebrows, only to shrug and act all cryptic when Akaashi inquired them about what was going on. He _really_ could’ve figured it out sooner).  

He knows now, and yet.

The pen he’s holding drops onto the table and he blinks a few times, looking at his unfinished assignment.

He needs to stop thinking about _him_ all the time.

Sighing, he tucks his hair behind his ear, and when he suddenly feels that his fringe is in the way, threatening to invade his eyes (he still hasn’t had that haircut yet), he stands up, pushing the chair back with his knees, and goes over to the dresser, rummaging through the things in the top drawer for some hair clips. He finds them, puts them into good use in holding some of his bangs back, and it’s then when his eyes detect the small gift bag, tucked in a corner, buried beneath his clothes. Dithering, he bites his bottom lip, staring into the drawer for longer than necessary. He thinks _why the hell not_ and plucks the bag out, pushes the drawer back in its compartment, and plods to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He looks at the item in his hands and thinks that he should probably chuck the bag already, since he’s already used the nail polish a couple of times before, only to slide the bottle into the gift bag again when he kept it.

He did try to fulfill his promise to Bokuto in putting it into good use, but the first time ended in a disaster when he realized how hard it was to paint his right fingernails using his left hand when he doesn’t possess ambidexterity, the second time yielding similar less-than-stellar results. The last time he wore it, he was still in his third year and his mother had walked in on him and offered to help him apply it, so the result wasn’t as bad as the ones from his preceding attempts, but he was only able to keep his nails black for one day – his school wouldn’t let its students get away with that sort of thing – and he had resolutely decided that putting the effort into making his nails look all nice and sleek was moot when they could only be kept on a Sunday. He soon forgot about it, up until recently.

He never really did get to show Bokuto how his hands would look like with his nails painted black.

The door bell rings and one look at the clock on his bedside table tells him that it’s past 11 at night. He wonders if Iwaizumi has forgotten his keys, which seems rather unlikely, but what’s even more unthinkable is that he’s still out that late even though he has morning classes the next day.        

Akaashi does not expect to find Oikawa standing outside, his surprised expression mirroring Akaashi’s.

Well, he certainly didn’t see this coming.

Oikawa seems to remember that there shouldn’t be any reason to be stunned when Akaashi _does_ live there, and he simpers, “Kei-chan! Hi there!” His voice is unnaturally high, as if he’s forcing himself to sound exuberant.

At some point during their time as acquaintances, Akaashi has completely given up on correcting him on the sobriquet.

Oikawa falls quiet for a fraction of a second as he gives Akaashi a once-over, and he looks thoroughly impressed. “You’re so _moe_!” he exclaims, his grin wide, his eyes gleaming, “The drawstring pants contrasts nicely with the skinny jeans that you’re always wearing, and the hair clips make you even cuter! The gap between your private and public appearance adds volumes to the _moe_ factor.”

Now he’s reverted back to how he always sounds, Akaashi thinks, and the thought that drifts through Akaashi’s mind following his observation on Oikawa is that he might have erred in his judgment when he bought the owl clips that he has on, because despite how they’re really pleasing to the eyes and remind him so much of a certain someone, he really should’ve thought twice about purchasing them.

“Illegal,” Oikawa continues, “Really, Kei-chan, it’s illegal how you can pull off any look.” He has that too bright of a smile on his face, which is meant to allow him to come across as earnest and friendly, but is only endlessly disconcerting and ingenuine to Akaashi.

Akaashi moves to close the door and Oikawa scrambles forward, squawking as he jams the door with his foot and tries to shove it open, his body halfway inside, “Alright, okay, I’m sorry! Please don’t close the door on me.”

Akaashi huffs and releases his hold on the door, causing Oikawa to stumble inside ungracefully, flailing as he regains his balance.

After locking the door, Akaashi turns to Oikawa, who’s already in the living room, standing and looking around, his eyes roaming the apartment as he chews his lips.

“What brings you here?” Akaashi asks, noticing the worry and uneasiness on Oikawa’s face and posture.

“Um,” Oikawa coughs a little, “Is Iwa-chan home, by any chance?” He darts a nervous glance that’s meant to be surreptitious towards Iwaizumi’s bedroom.

This is new. Oikawa and Iwaizumi, as far as Akaashi knows, are inseparable if not for the fact that they live in different apartments, and they’re always together – on campus, for volleyball practice, during meals – and during the two weeks Akaashi has been living there, Oikawa has come by almost everyday, playing video games or eating dinner or studying or discussing strategies with Iwaizumi, and most often than not, his visits end with him opting to stay for the night, and he’d leave for classes the next day with Iwaizumi. Always with Iwaizumi.

If Oikawa doesn’t know where he is, Akaashi is sure that no one else does.

“No, he isn’t home,” Akaashi answers, and he doesn’t miss the disheartened look that passes Oikawa’s face.

“I see,” Oikawa responds, and his voice sounds dead, devoid of any emotions. He seems to shrink in on himself, with the way he slants his body at an angle that partially obscures his face from Akaashi’s gaze, arms hugged around his torso, head bowed so that his bangs covered his eyes.

Akaashi might be dense when it comes to the matters of his own heart and life, but he can say with a certain amount of confidence that he’s more perceptive when it concerns other people. He _has_ been proficient at dealing with the human hurricane that is Bokuto Koutarou – at least, up until recently, anyway.

“Oikawa-san,” he says, and Oikawa flinches a little at the sound of his name, slowly raising his head to look at Akaashi, and Akaashi smiles. “Would you like to have your nails painted?”

*

 


	2. iridescence of gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's anticlimactic, really.

“Please refrain from going through my wardrobe.”

Akaashi sits himself on the floor with the nail polish, a bottle of remover, and some cotton balls and swabs as Oikawa forages the clothes that hang in his closet, humming a chirpy tune. He swivels around dramatically and goes to the bookshelves, running his fingers along the book spines, bending down when he sees the camera on the desk and picking it up to inspect it, before he finally sits down opposite of Akaashi on the floor, legs crossed, the camera still in his hands.

“You’ve had enough of a tour?” Akaashi asks drily.

Oikawa looks at Akaashi through the viewfinder and the shutter clicks. “I’m just happy that you invited me to your room,” he says, lowering the camera and clicking on some buttons to review the picture he took. “Your camera is so fancy,” he remarks, holding it up again to take more photos of Akaashi and the room. “A hobby of yours?”

Akaashi shrugs non-committedly and grunts an affirmative as he unscrews the cap to the bottle of nail polish, watching the thick black liquid drip off the brush.

Oikawa sets the camera aside, “Like how volleyball is also a hobby?”

Akaashi careens his head to the side thoughtfully, “I’m passionate enough to a certain extent about both.”

He extends his left hand out, palm upwards, and Oikawa blinks at it for a while before offering his right hand, hovering it above Akaashi’s, his calloused fingers brushing against the rough skin of Akaashi’s palm and fingers. 

“Even though there’s still traces of the blisters that you got from volleyball?” There’s a hint of a smile on Oikawa’s lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Akaashi doesn’t say anything as he steadies Oikawa’s hand, propping the fingers to stabilize them, dips the brush in the bottle, swirling it around a little, and pulls it out again, gently running the brush against the rim to rid of any excess. He swipes it over the nail of Oikawa’s index finger, covering the whole surface in black in a few clean strokes. He examines his work for a while. He wonders if specks of gold would look good over a background of complete blackness. He bites back a sigh.

“I can guess the subject of your reverie,” Oikawa chimes in, and Akaashi responds with a “Really now?” without looking up.

Oikawa perks up a bit at receiving a chance for conversation. Gives him a leeway to temporarily forget about his own problems perhaps, Akaashi assumes inwardly.

“Oh yes, I really can,” Oikawa straightens his back to deliver his grand conjecture, “You’re thinking about a certain owl-haired simpleton.”

Akaashi’s body stiffens, and the brush that he’s holding skids off its course, smearing Oikawa’s middle finger with a trail of black nail polish, but Akaashi keeps his head bowed.

“Bingo, huh?” Oikawa’s smug voice helps with Akaashi’s recovery, and he swallows, his hand moving again to clean off the mistake he made.

“What makes you say that?” he manages, spewing some of the nail polish remover onto a cotton ball and dabbing it over the stain.

“I saw a very interesting twitter post from the cheshire cat,” Oikawa says, fishing his phone out his back pocket, “Wanna see it?”

Akaashi can’t help but to snap his head up, his curiosity and confusion winning out, “Cheshire cat?”

“You shouldn’t frown like that, Kei-chan. It’s such a waste of your pretty face,” Oikawa says. Akaashi squeezes his hand and Oikawa yelps. “Ouch! Okay, okay. Jeez, you have a mean grip. And it’s not even your dominant hand.”

Akaashi loosens the grip on Oikawa’s hand, waiting for an explanation.

“The cat. The dude with the impressive bedhead. I know him. We’ve had practice matches a number of times before and we follow each other on Twitter. And we poke each other a lot on Facebook,” Oikawa explains as he tugs and pulls his hand in an attempt to extract it from Akaashi’s hold, and he sighs when his efforts prove to be futile.

“So that means you also know Bokuto-san,” Akaashi states, his frown beginning to recede.

“Yeah. I know the owl too. He shit-posts a lot. Which is why I don’t follow him back on Twitter and Tumblr,” Oikawa scrunches his face, and Akaashi immediately thinks, _the pot calling the kettle black._ Because _oh boy has he seen Oikawa’s posts and tweets_. They’re probably going to scar him for life. 

“Anyway, Cheshire posted something about the owl having love problems and how he’s the one who has to help clean up the mess, because he’s, verbatim, the best bro ever.”

And the frown is back on Akaashi’s face.

Oikawa has the audacity to smirk. “It’s a no-brainer, you know. Everyone knows how the owl is smitten with his oh-so-amazing setter from high school, since he’s always gushing about how pretty and smart and great this guy is. And what are the chances that Iwa-chan’s new housemate would be the very same person that I keep hearing about!”

Akaashi rolls his eyes and holds back a groan. Of course. How could Akaashi have been so clueless. Now he understands why he should be more active on Twitter and Facebook.

“I hear that you’re very fluent in the language of Bokutoism, Kei-chan. Cheshire always says that,” Oikawa supplies, his smile guileful, and Akaashi swears that one of these days he will definitely sock Kuroo. Maybe he could even ask Yaku for backup. That always works.

“But did you really break his heart? Why did you?” Oikawa rattles on, the mock-excited twinge in his voice growing pronounced, “Is it because you don’t swing that way?”

Akaashi feels his mouth go dry. He glues his eyes to the floor.

“I don’t think I swing in any way,” he murmurs.

The amusement and taunt on Oikawa’s face drifts quickly to realization and penitence.

“Oh.”

Akaashi still hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Oikawa-san,” Akaashi says, breaking the heavy silence that has woven itself around them, “Why are you here? In Todai?”

Oikawa cocks his head to the side.

“You could’ve gone to other universities that have stronger volleyball teams.” Akaashi stares at their clasped hands, then drags his eyes upwards to Oikawa’s face when he doesn’t receive an answer.

He watches Oikawa gulp.

Oikawa stammers, eyes going wide with panic, “Well, um, it’s – ”

Then he purses his lips, tipping his head upwards a little as he takes in a deep breath. A despaired sigh leaves his mouth as he combs his left hand through his hair.

“It’s no use bullshitting you, is it?” he smiles fatuously, “This part of you makes you irritatingly similar to Iwa-chan.”

Akaashi remains quiet.

“Iwa-chan and I were scouted a few times, and we received sports recommendations from various universities,” he raises his hand, making a few gestures, “But Iwa-chan’s dad said that yeah, these schools are all really good and stuff but he didn’t want his son to shoot down other potentials, so he got Iwa-chan to sit for entrance exams as well, to try and get into all these big-named places. And by some miracle, he really did get into the best college in the country,” Oikawa snorts, “Guess he’s not so much of a blockhead after all.”

His hand falls onto his lap, his fabricated upbeat and nonchalant attitude dropping along with it. “Of course he chose to go here. It would be stupid of him not to.”

Akaashi feels Oikawa squeezing his hand a little.

“And as for me,” he breathes a hollow laughter, “I never had to think twice about where I wanted to go. I applied to whichever schools he applied to. It was ‘us’, or nothing at all.”

Akaashi gives Oikawa’s hand a small squeeze, and Oikawa smiles.

“Well, anyway, I can play volleyball wherever, you know. It’s not big of a deal. I’ll still slay everyone else no matter which team I’m on,” Oikawa’s smile turns malevolent, “I think it’s my ‘senseless pride’ talking. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.” There is a vicious fire in his eyes, and Akaashi decides he does not want to know the backstory for that.

Oikawa jabs a finger to Akaashi’s cheek, poking and prodding his face.

Akaashi’s brow twitches, and he closes his eyes against the throb of a growing headache. “What are you doing. You’re going to ruin your nail.”

“Trying to see if doing this will get you to talk. And I’m being careful.”

Akaashi swats Oikawa’s hand away.

“So violent!” Oikawa shrieks.

Akaashi huffs out a breath that leaves him feeling deflated and tired. He picks up the brush, brings Oikawa’s hand closer to his face, and starts to swipe the nails with black polish again, continuing where he left off, the smell of lacquer permeating the room, wafting to his nostrils and filling his head, sloshing his thoughts a bit, and he feels that since it’s already been brought up, he might as well just run with it.

“I suppose I did break it.”

He dips the brush into the pool of black liquid, pulls it out, gently wiping it against the mouth of the bottle, and paints Oikawa’s nails in deft movements.

“His heart. I broke it.”

Akaashi finishes covering all five fingers with shiny black coats, and proceeds with Oikawa’s left hand.

“Even though I know that he likes me, and even though I know that I return his feelings, I still hurt him. All because of my own cowardice and insecurities.”

In four clean strokes, the thumbnail is tainted in black.

“Does that mean that I’m a bad person, Oikawa-san? Does that mean that I don’t like him enough? I don’t even understand it myself, and this is what makes it so frustrating.”

Oikawa’s right fingers circle around the wrist of Akaashi’s left hand, and Akaashi lets it be pulled away from where it was supporting Oikawa’s left.

“It just means that you’re human.”

Akaashi lifts his gaze and is met with a tender expression, burgundy eyes deep and swirling with raw emotions, and he lets himself wonder how Oikawa could allow himself to appear so human in front of Akaashi of all people, but when his gaze falls again, he feels his lips curl upwards into a smile.

“That was very profound, Oikawa-san. I never knew you had it in you,” he says.

Oikawa harrumphs. “Excuse you, I am a _very_ wise person.” He pats Akaashi’s hand in a patronizing manner, sticking his chin up in the air, “You can always come to me, the great Oikawa Tooru, for counseling and advice, my fledgling, naïve junior.”

Akaashi raises a skeptical eyebrow.

He looks over Oikawa’s shoulder, in the direction of the door, and says, “Oh, Iwaizumi-san.”

Oikawa quails and squeaks, scrambling to his feet and hastily scampering behind Akaashi, crouching into a ball and pressing his face between Akaashi’s shoulder blades, his hands clutched onto Akaashi’s forearms.

Akaashi snickers, trying very hard to stifle his laughter, and Oikawa peeks over his shoulder, meekly looking at the closed door.

When he sees no Iwaizumi at the door, he gasps in absolute appall, looking abysmally offended, and smacks Akaashi’s shoulder. “That was low, Kei-chan. How could you!”

Akaashi lets out a throaty laugh, covering a hand over his mouth, turning around so that he’s facing Oikawa, and collects Oikawa’s left hand, grazing the knuckles with his thumb. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help it,” he says, still grinning.

Oikawa continues to pout as Akaashi finishes painting the rest of his nails, but his eyes sparkle with fascination when he inspects the finished work. He holds his hands up and spreads his fingers apart, tinkling them, and he beams at Akaashi.

“Okay, now it’s your turn. Let me do it for you,” he offers.

Akaashi tosses him a smile, then a look of recognition hits his face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Oikawa parrots, expression perplexed.

“I just remembered. About the base coat. It should’ve been put on first before the nail polish,” Akaashi elaborates.

“Is it bad to not put that on?”

“Looks like you’re going to have black nails permanently, Oikawa-san,” Akaashi says impassively.

Oikawa’s jaw drops.

“I’m kidding.”

Oikawa nearly weeps.

*

An old conversation:

_“Hey hey hey! Akaashi! How was your first official game? Did you have fun? I sure did!!”_

_“Yes, Bokuto-san. It was certainly a great learning experience. I’m grateful that a first-year like myself has been given the opportunity.”_

_“And you’re gonna have more and more chances in the future! I’m gonna make you my vice-captain after the third years retire, and you’re going to be the team’s official setter. I don’t want anyone else to toss to me!”_

_“That’s what you say, but I can’t be the only setter on the team, you’re going to have to practice with other people as well.”_

_“Bokuto-san, please don’t sulk. In the event that I am not able to play for whatever reason, we’ll need to have reserves. But I promise that I’ll do my best to ensure that I’ll play in all the games that you will. “_

_“You’d do that for me?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“You’re the best, Akaashi! I promise that I’ll help to make you see how great volleyball is! For my most beloved junior, I shall lend my strength in bringing forth the existence of_ that moment _!”_

_“You’re not exaggerating, are you?”_

_“Of course not!!”_

*

Akaashi wakes up the next morning to the shrill ringing of his alarm clock, and when he shuts the alarm off, his mind dimly registers that he was asleep on the floor. Eyes gritty and mind groggy, he slowly ambles out of his room to the kitchen and starts the coffee machine, before he blearily goes to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Feeling more awake, he walks over again to the kitchen, but he takes a moment to note that Oikawa’s shoes are still in the entryway area, next to the ones that Iwaizumi wore when he went out yesterday morning. He casts a glance towards Iwaizumi’s room, the door closed, and he smiles. Whatever was going on between those two, he has a feeling that it’s been resolved, and he decides that he doesn’t have to wake Iwaizumi up for his morning class. He thinks about his own Problems and Issues, and feels resolute about putting an end to them.

Two mugs of coffee and a shower later, Akaashi finds himself to be in a rather good mood as he heads to the train station, which is extremely bizarre, because he’s definitely not a morning person and he usually needs to guzzle down at least three mugs of coffee to even be able to make it out of his apartment without feeling that he might just lie down in the middle of the sidewalk somewhere so he could at least get some shuteye or fall into a ditch because he’s still too drowsy.

Only when he’s hopped on the train does he check his phone, and he’s puzzled to see that he has a lot of Facebook notifications.

He opens them up and his face contorts into an expression of absolute distaste.

Oikawa has posted a picture of them from last night, a photo taken in stealth, after Akaashi has dozed off. Akaashi was sitting on the floor, sleeping, his back against the bed, his head lolled to the side as it rested against the edge of the bed, the owl hair clips still tucked in his bangs. Oikawa was sprawled on the bed, lying upside down so that his face was close to Akaashi’s, and he’s winking with his lips puckered, a peace sign held up over the one closed eye, the back of his hand facing the camera so that the black nails on his two fingers can be exhibited.

The caption reads: “The two prettiest setters in all of Japan (´ゝз・)─☆(cc **Sugawara Koushi** this could be us but you playin’)”

Because Akaashi has been tagged in the post, he’s received multiple notifications on the comments that the post has garnered. His eyebrows knit together as he reads through them, lips flattened.

 **Sugawara Koushi** : So you were serious about that setters association thing? If Akaashi’s in on it then I guess I’ll gladly accept your invitation to join!

 **Oikawa Tooru** : Of course I was serious! This is no joking matter. Suggestions for the name is now officially open!! I’m counting on you, Refreshing-kun!

 **Sawamura Daichi** : suga don’t

 **Kageyama Tobio** : Oikawa-san, Akaashi-san, please allow me to join as well. Also, help me with honing my tosses.

 **Oikawa Tooru** : You are STRICTLY forbidden from receiving a membership, Tobio-chan.

 **Kuroo Tetsurou** : holy shit akaashi since when were you best friends with oikawa

 **Kuroo Tetsurou** : lol not that it’s a bad thing

 **Kuroo Tetsurou** : hey wait i’ve read the previous comments about the setters organization. or is it a cult? how about you join ‘em **Kozume Kenma**

 **Kozume Kenma** : why are you dragging me into this

Kenma’s comment is the last of them, and it was posted a few minutes ago, and there hasn’t been any more replies from Oikawa, so Akaashi assumes he must be sleeping. The post itself was published at 3 a.m., and Akaashi does a little introspection, berating himself for letting his guard down and falling asleep in the presence of one Oikawa Tooru.

So much for being in a good mood.

Striding to the lecture hall, he grimaces when he feels his phone buzzing in his back pocket, and he unlocks his phone with a swipe of his thumb, practically glowering at the screen.

It’s a text from Kuroo, informing him that Bokuto won’t have any classes in the evenings, and he’s too bummed out for practice. It’s a hint that Kuroo’s urging Akaashi to come by Bokuto’s place and solve whatever that needs to be solved, and Akaashi thinks that yeah, Kuroo is nice, but he’s still going to get socked one of these days.

Finished with two consecutive classes, Akaashi makes a beeline for the cafeteria, buying himself a sandwich and a large cup of coffee. He stashes the sandwich in his bag (he doesn’t have the appetite to eat it right away) and chugs down the coffee as he makes his way back to the train station, thinking _this is it._

Bokuto’s apartment is pretty close by to Chuo University’s Korakuen campus where he attends, and having been there in the past, Akaashi makes it to his destination with little to no problems. Unless, the unhealthy rate at which his heart is beating can be considered a problem.

Maybe he should’ve bought more coffee. (Conversely, maybe he _shouldn’t_ have drank so much coffee).

The weather is still rather cool since May hasn’t even arrived yet, but Akaashi is sweating profusely under his clothes as he climbs the stairs to Bokuto’s apartment, beads of perspiration beginning to form on his forehead. He trips over a step and curses under his breath, repeatedly chanting a chorus of _pull yourself together_ inside his head.

When he’s standing in front of Bokuto’s door, he teeters between knocking on the door and using the key that he’s been given sometime last year, when Bokuto first moved in and told Akaashi, with fervent enthusiasm, that he’s welcomed to stop by any time and _pleasepleaseplease come visit I get so lonely without you around!!_

Akaashi has never made use of the key before, so as he vacillates between being courteous by knocking and being stalwart by barging in, he realizes that he’s just stalling, and he slaps his cheeks. He thrusts the key in, twists the knob, and shoves the door open.

It’s anticlimactic, really.

Bokuto is lying on his stomach on the couch, his face buried in a pillow, and the television is paused at a scene in Tangled where Flynn supposedly dies. The living room is a mess, with clothes and pieces of used tissue strewn across the floor, and there are two dogs and a cat cowering behind the couch.

Akaashi runs a hand over his face.

He puts down his sling-bag, walks purposefully to where Bokuto is, and bends down, shaking the sleeping figure awake.

Bokuto stirs, mumbling unintelligibly, and cracks an eye open, while Akaashi hovers over him. He freezes, closes his eye again, before he painstakingly sits up, his head in his hands.

“I must be dreaming,” he says, his voice thick with sleep, “I thought I saw Akaashi’s face inches away from mine.”

His hands fall and he finally opens his eyes, and Akaashi stares at him, squatting directly in front of him.

Bokuto gapes, a scream forming on his lips, but Akaashi cuts in.

“Bokuto-san,” he intones, “Don’t be alarmed. It’s just me. Please calm down.”

Bokuto’s mouth closes, but his eyes are wide and blood-shot, his hair falling in a heap of messy black and white strands over his forehead, and he looks nothing short of a frightened child.

Akaashi’s heart constricts, and his throat is clenched with the emotions that he feels. He swallows down the lump in his throat, shifting his legs so that he’s on both knees, and he looks at Bokuto in the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps out.

Something flashes across the golden orbs in front of him, and Akaashi reaches out trembling hands. He gathers Bokuto’s hands in his own, and his eyes flutter closed. He can feel it; the comfortable temperature of the hands that he’s holding, and he relishes the touch, the familiar warmth emanating from the person he adores soothing him and washing away the nerves that rattle his body. 

He opens his eyes, and is relieved to see that Bokuto is still looking at him, his gaze unwavering. “I’m sorry,” he reiterates, a bit louder and more firm this time, “For hurting you.”

“I know it’s not about me going to a different school,” he pulls in a breath, “It’s about me not telling you one of the most important decisions that I would make in my life. And it’s about me pretending that you’re not special to me.”

The grasp around Bokuto’s hands tighten.

“It’s about me being scared of committing myself to another human being. I keep running away from dealing with the feelings of others – hell, I even run away from my own feelings, because I’m not comfortable with all this, whatever ‘this’ is supposed to be.”

He sighs.

“It’s scary, because I have a handful of goals that I want to attain, but on the other hand, I hold an overabundance of dreams and hopes and feelings, and I worry that I won’t be able to carry all of these things and they’ll just slip through my fingers. Even telling you all of this is scary.”

His eyes begin to sting.

“It’s really scary,” he whispers.

Bokuto lunges forward and envelops him into a hug, big arms wrapped around his shoulders, head nestled against the crook of his neck, hair tickling his jaw. Akaashi is a little startled, tear-welled eyes widening slightly.

“I’m sorry too,” Bokuto says, his voice muffled as he buries his head deeper into Akaashi’s shirt. “I’m sorry for assuming that you could just follow me here, when I know that things are never that easy. And I’m sorry for not telling you about my feelings sooner, and for yelling at you the other day.”

Akaashi gingerly brings his hands up and rests them on Bokuto’s back. He slides a hand upwards, along Bokuto’s spine to the nape of his neck, until his fingers meet the softness of Bokuto’s hair. He tangles them among the frenzy of black and white, gently and slowly stroking Bokuto’s head. As his fingers thread through the locks, he wonders idly how long it takes to completely clean the hair from all the gel that Bokuto applies (he only knows that it takes approximately 43 minutes for him to style it up).

“Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto responds with a hum, sounding content at being petted.

“I really, really like you.”

Bokuto’s body goes stiff, and Akaashi doesn’t repress the smile that’s making its way to his face. He extricates himself from Bokuto’s embrace, cusping a hand over Bokuto’s cheek, his smile expanding when he sees that Bokuto has turned into a startling hue of crimson.

“Will you go out with me?”

The red that flares across Bokuto’s face turns a shade darker, and he gulps.

“Yes,” he stutters, “Yes! Of course!” he shouts, plunging forward again, bundling Akaashi in his arms as they both topple over, with Bokuto on top of Akaashi who’s fallen on his back on the floor, laughter bubbling through him, and Bokuto feels like crying, because the sound is as melodious as he remembers it, and he’s glad that he could hear it again.

“You’re so unfair, Akaashi. How could you ask me out like that, all cool and suave, while kneeling too! I mean, how could I ever top that?! How in the world am I going to propose to you?!”

Akaashi pries himself out of Bokuto’s arms and gives him one strong push, making him roll over onto his back with a strangled yelp, and Akaashi crawls on top of him, a smirk playing over his lips.

“One thing at a time, Bokuto-san.”

He studies Bokuto’s face, and rests his gaze on his eyes, immersing himself in the rich iridescence of gold, the diluted pupils black and unfathomably deep.

Akaashi doesn’t think it was possible for him to be able to smile so broadly to a point where his cheeks are starting to hurt.

Bokuto bites his bottom lip, cheeks flushed. “A-akaashi,” he looks at him with beseeching eyes, “I really, um- I really want a kiss right now.”

Akaashi laughs again – he hasn’t felt this elated in such a long time – and he brushes Bokuto’s bangs away from his eyes, tracing his index finger across his cheekbone. He leans in as Bokuto closes his eyes, but when he’s merely a breath away from Bokuto’s lips, he changes course and swerves upwards, planting a kiss on Bokuto’s forehead.

Bokuto’s eyes snap open at the contact as Akaashi pulls away, smile still intact. Akaashi gets to his feet, offering a hand, and Bokuto accepts it, standing up a little unsteadily, and he looks dazed, eyes wide and round.

“I… I just found out that a forehead kiss is somehow more romantic than a mouth-to-mouth kiss,” he blabbers, bringing a hand over his mouth. His eyes skitter to the side as he mumbles, “Can you give me another one?”

Akaashi rolls his eyes, but the smile he’s wearing betrays any contempt, and as he stands on his tiptoes, placing his hands on Bokuto’s shoulders, Bokuto dips his head down, and Akaashi easily kisses the crown of his head. Falling back flat on his feet, Akaashi asks, “When was the last time you washed your hair?”    

Bokuto grins sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

“And when was the last time you took a shower?”

Bokuto pinches his lips together, eyes actively averting Akaashi’s steely ones.

“Your house is a mess too,” Akaashi comments, pointing to the shirt at his foot with a nudge of his chin. 

“Bokuto-san, look at me,” he orders, voice monotonous and stony.

Bokuto heeds the command, but the look of anxiety and shame morphs into one of pleasant astonishment.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, grabbing Akaashi’s hands and bringing them close to his face, “You painted your nails.”

Akaashi feels a blush creeping up his neck.

“I simply made use of the gift that I received from you,” he manages to say.

Bokuto breaks into a huge smile, all dimples and pearly white teeth, his eyes crinkling into happy slits, and Akaashi understands now.

_You like him, and he likes you – it’s as simple as that._

Bullshit. It’s never as simple as that, and Akaashi understands this very well.

(Romance and love can never be generalized, and he’s come to terms with this only through the things he’s seen and experienced).

It’s no use comparing Bokuto and him with Kuroo and Kenma, or Oikawa and Iwaizumi, or with any other people. Kenma would quietly follow Kuroo wherever he goes – and vice versa – and Oikawa finds it meaningless if he were to pursue whatever he wants to pursue without Iwaizumi by his side.

Just because he’s not like them, it does not mean that the feelings he has towards Bokuto are any less significant.  

He’s happiest when he’s with Bokuto, and Bokuto is the only one who manages to occupy his thoughts to an insurmountable degree. Before he’s even realized it, his world has pivoted around the existence of Bokuto Koutarou, and he hopes – no, _knows_ – that the sentiment is reciprocated.

He knows that it’s not possible to spend all his time and attention on one person, but what he knows to be possible is to admit and convey his affections, and cherish that person in ways that he’s capable of.

To put things in sappy and goosebumps-inducing words (which isn’t his style at all), he does not need to compare the extent of his feelings to other people’s, because he has his own style of love.

(People tend to be cowards in the face of happiness, and while he knows that his fears aren’t baseless, he knows that taking that leap of faith is always worth the risk. He knows that now).

*

Oikawa stomps towards Akaashi, hands curled into fists. He seizes Akaashi’s shoulders, looking at him sternly in the eyes.

“Why are you dating that idiot?” he seethes, and Bokuto continues to roar and hoot in triumph over his victory on their 3-on-3 match, while Kuroo bellows whoops of success.

Akaashi shrugs.

“Poor decision-making probably,” Kenma quips from the side, taking a drink from his water bottle, “Though I can’t say I’ve made better choices myself.”

Oikawa releases Akaashi and sighs dramatically. “You two have bad taste.”

This time he receives two shrugs, and he throws his hands up in despair.

“You’re still in pretty good shape, even though you haven’t played in a few months,” Oikawa says to the both of them, “It’s a shame you’re not playing competitively anymore,” he bends down to tie his shoe lace as he says this, voice framed in casualness, and Akaashi knows that he’s doing it on purpose so that his face can’t be seen. (Oikawa seems to have accepted that he cannot fool Akaashi and Kenma, but he also knows that the only one who would call him out on his bullcrapping is Iwaizumi).

Akaashi wipes the sheen of sweat on his forehead with his arm and goes over to where Bokuto and Kuroo are, and Bokuto immediately jumps off Kuroo’s back (he insisted on Kuroo carrying him so that they could charge onwards and continue to annoy Oikawa), running to Akaashi’s side, beaming and asking to be praised.

“You’ve done really well,” Akaashi says, rubbing Bokuto’s head.

Kuroo elbows Bokuto, cocking his head in Iwaizumi’s direction.

“Look at that,” he tells them, a lopsided grin etched on his face.

On the other side of the court, Oikawa is begging Iwaizumi to carry him.

“Why should I do that, Shittykawa?”

“Because!” Oikawa persists, “My knee hurts!” His glistening eyes are round and pleading, lower lip jutting out.

Iwaizumi glares at him for a while, but then he scoops Oikawa up, an arm hooked under his knees and the other supporting his back, and Oikawa loops his own arms around Iwaizumi’s neck, letting out a little ‘yay~’.

With a wave of his hand, Oikawa shouts a merry “See you at home, Kei-chan!” and sticks his tongue out when his eyes land on Kuroo and Bokuto as Iwaizumi carries him out the gym.

“Iwaizumi is so whipped,” Kuroo says with a smirk.

“Mmhm,” Bokuto agrees, nodding sharply.

Kuroo looks at Bokuto for a while, stroking his chin in thought. “Though I guess you’re just as whipped as he is,” he remarks, and Bokuto shoots him a dirty look.

Akaashi crosses his arms, shifting his weight to one foot, and gives Kuroo a deadpan, unimpressed stare.

“What?” Kuroo inquires, “It’s true isn’t it?”

Kenma walks up to Kuroo, tugging him on his sleeve, “Kuro, I’m tired.”

“Of course, I’m sorry, kitten. We’ll go home right away,” Kuroo says as he snakes an arm around Kenma’s waist.

Akaashi raises an eyebrow, deigning Kuroo a pointed look that speaks a thousand words.

Kuroo opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, looking utterly defeated. “Damn it, Akaashi. I hate how you can win arguments without even saying anything.” He waves a hand up in surrender as he steers Kenma away, “Fine, fine, my ass is whipped too. I’ll see you guys around.”

Akaashi smiles after them, and turns around when Bokuto taps him on the shoulder.

“What is it, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto pouts, “You have to leave too, don’t you?”

Akaashi nods, glancing at the clock tacked on the wall of the gym. “I promised Ennoshita to meet with him in an hour.”

“It’s the usual, then?”

Akaashi starts walking towards the door as he replies, “Kind of.”

Bokuto bounds after him, his voice an octave higher. “Kind of? Does that mean that it’s different this time? What’s up? What are you guys filming about? Why are you being mysterious about this?”

Akaashi presses his forefinger on Bokuto’s lips, expression neutral. “It’s a surprise, Bokuto-san,” he says as he drags the finger across Bokuto’s lips, over to his jaw and down to his neck, ghosting over the collarbones, before finally resting it on his chest.

“You need to be patient,” he adds, voice low, “Haven’t you heard that good things come to those who wait?”

The mischievous glint in Akaashi’s eyes belies the mask of apathy, and Bokuto squirms a little, the tips of his right fingers meeting with the left’s as he nervously asks, “If I wait patiently, will you spoon me when we go to sleep?”

Akaashi doesn’t resist the tender smile that seeps up his face. “Of course, Bokuto-san.”

(Though, if Akaashi were to be frank, showing Bokuto a movie that features him as the protagonist would be such a poor compensation for the sincere, endearing request and Bokuto’s tolerance; Akaashi would’ve become the big spoon and cuddle with him all night long even if Bokuto hadn’t asked him to. Besides, he’s not even sure if he wants to share the movie when it’s done – just watching bits and pieces of it when he’s quality-checking with Ennoshita already fills him with enough mortification to last him a lifetime).

As they walk to the train station (Bokuto will go home and Akaashi will meet up with Ennoshita somewhere else), Bokuto intertwines their fingers together after much hemming and hawing, and Akaashi gives his hand a light, encouraging squeeze as he begins to swing their clasped hands between them. Bokuto giggles out of pure happiness, and Akaashi’s smile never diminishes.

“Bokuto-san.”

“Yeah?”

Akaashi looks at their elongated shadows in the orange light of the setting sun – two figures walking with their hands locked – and he says, “Thank you.”  

*

A future conversation:

_“Bokuto-san?”_

_“Yeah, Akaashi?”_

_“Would you like to move in with me?”_

***

 

Epilogue:

 

Bokuto tells him.

He tells him when he hugs him from behind as he cooks dinner, face buried in the cleft of his neck, arms circled around his abdomen, shins pressed against his calves, and Akaashi has to tell him to sit and wait at the table because _I can’t cook with you back-hugging me, Bokuto-san, so it’s either a hug or we starve for the night._

Bokuto tells him over the phone each night, Akaashi leafing through his thick textbooks and jotting down notes as Bokuto lies down on his bed with his handphone cradled between his ear and his right hand, waiting for sleep to beckon him, and he would drift away over the sound of Akaashi’s voice, wrung of all fatigue and filled with his presence.   

Bokuto tells him when Akaashi stays over for the night and he sits between Bokuto’s legs, back snug against chest, cheek brushing against cheek as Bokuto rests his chin on his shoulder, peering at the laptop screen balanced on Akaashi’s lap.

Bokuto tells him when Akaashi waits for him outside the changing room after he finishes a game, knowing that he has someone to ground him back to earth when he strays too far out of the stratosphere in either bursts of victorious clamor or cocoons of seemingly bottomless, interminable self-pitying and wallowing; his anchor and his guide.

Bokuto tells him when they’re lying on the bed together, Akaashi’s arm draped over his waist as they face each other, legs tangled under the blankets, only the sound of his heartbeat resonating in his eardrums, and when he scoots closer to lean his head against Akaashi’s chest, he can also hear the steady thumping rhythm of Akaashi’s heart, and he feels as if they’re the only ones in the world, enveloped in the mantle of the night.

Bokuto tells him his hopes and fears, his past blunders and future ambitions, his family and childhood memories, his feelings and thoughts, his secrets and insecurities – and Akaashi does, too.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have a few stories planned for this series, possibly featuring ennoaka and their filming shenanigans, and iwaoi and their buckets of feels  
> but knowing that i'm very talented at procrastinating, ,,  
> yeah.
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback, and thank you for taking the time to read my work! 
> 
> Come and find me at nakasomethingkun@tumblr if you wanna hurl oranges at me

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this was supposed to be a one-shot but i thought that dumping the whole 17k into one page is sorta unreasonable 
> 
> also english ain't me first language if you spot any mistakes feel free to notify me!


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